A Funny Thing Happened
by Signy1
Summary: The main thing to remember is that, in the end, the mission was a success. There's really no need to go over all the little details of who did what, whether or not the instructions were clear, who said they would handle that one crucial step, or why, precisely, someone ended up half-naked. Is there? No, I didn't think so. Let's hope Hogan doesn't, either. Drabble.
1. Chapter 1

LeBeau had his sweater tied around his waist like an apron. Newkirk's, too; basic decency demanded it. He was carrying as much of their walkie-talkies as they'd been able to salvage.

Newkirk, limping and scorched, was carrying Carter.

The mission had been successful. Technically. Explaining that to the Colonel might present some minor difficulties.

"This will probably be funny in, say, fifty years," Carter said, eventually.

"Fifty years, eh?" Newkirk snorted. "Fine. In fifty years, laugh all you like. But not until then, all right?"

"1993," LeBeau mused. " _Bien_. In 1993 I will tease you about it."

He did, too.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: This mission must have been a _doozy._ Newkirk wants it made very clear that it _wasn't his fault_. LeBeau wants someone to bring him another pair of trousers. Carter's a bit lightheaded yet; he just keeps making 'Kaboom!' sound effects and snickering to himself. Kinch is feeling grateful that he was safely back at camp manning the radio, and Hogan wants an aspirin, a stiff drink, and then another stiff drink after that one.


	2. Chapter 2

Carter, slung over Newkirk's bare shoulder in a fireman's carry, still possessed trousers. Hogan was grateful.

"Is the bridge still there?" First things first.

" _Non, mon Colonel."_

Well, that was something. Carter's mumbled "Kabooooom," was abruptly silenced when Newkirk slapped the most convenient spot.

"Good," Hogan said, ignoring the byplay. "What the hell happened out there? Do I even want to know?"

The corporals traded a long look. "I couldn't really say, _Colonel_ ," LeBeau said, smoothing his makeshift kilt guiltily.

"I see," Hogan said. "And if I ordered you?"

"Rather be bloody shot," Newkirk rasped. " _Again._ "

Hogan let it go.

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: I have no intention of ever explaining precisely what happened. Because nothing I could possibly write would be nearly as funny, embarrassing, obscene, improbable, or, frankly, interesting as the utter pandemonium you're all imagining for yourselves, and as long as I don't go into details, each and every version of the story is correct. (Yes. Even THAT one. You know the one I'm talking about.) I'm beyond flattered that so many of you enjoyed this to the point of wanting to continue the story, and I hope you're all having as much fun as I am.

...And Newkirk wants to reiterate the fact that it really, really _wasn't_ his fault.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometime in 1944...

In diner slang, 'to eighty-six' something meant 'get rid of it.' Scott had spent several summers as a soda jerk, and suspected that the slang was peculiar to the States, so when he heard his British rescuer snapping, "Ninety-three!" at his companions, he, understandably, assumed that it was an error.

"I think you mean 'Eighty-six,'" he said.

"'Ardly. I need those extra seven years."

Scott's look of incomprehension moved Hogan to take pity. "Inside joke," he explained. "Around here, 'ninety-three' means 'knock it off; this isn't the time to discuss it.'"

"Er… why?"

Hogan snorted. "They still won't tell me."

OoOoOoO

Author's note: Diner slang is a delight. Insane, but a delight. The verb 'to 86' does mean 'get rid of,' and seems to date at least to the 30s. Etymology is obscure, and there are a great many theories as to where it came from, ranging from the bizarre to the _very_ bizarre, but it's become an accepted phrase, surviving long after most diner lingo has gone the way of the dodo, alas. So far as I am aware, no one ever used the phrase '93' to mean anything at all, and I rather think the Heroes preferred it that way.

Slowly but surely, we're making our way to 1993...


	4. Chapter 4

Sometime in 1963…

"I've always wondered, Newkirk. About that still..."

"…You're thirty years early."

"RHIP," said Hogan. "Humor me. When the booze went flying, did you drink any of it?"

Newkirk recoiled. "Sir! I'd been flash-fried and shot, I was 'alf-naked, and I 'ad Carter over one shoulder. Louie'd already swooned twice, and I knew if 'e got a third look at me leg, I'd be carrying 'im over me _other_ shoulder. I bloody well _wanted_ a drink, but I was on duty. So no, Colonel. I didn't."

"Besides," LeBeau added. "All the bottles were smashed."

Newkirk scowled in remembered frustration. "That, too."

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: Okay, this is taking on a life of its own! This snippet is actually a response to Katbybee's wonderful expansion of the story- 'Mission Accomplished- Sort Of,' and MoonyEstelChase's equally wonderful 'Glib.'

RHIP stands for 'Rank Hath Its Privileges.' And speaking of rank, Hogan is almost certainly a general by this point... but he'll always be 'the Colonel' to his men.

Perhaps someday I'll actually manage to write a one-shot that *stays* a one-shot. Between this Jack's Beanstalk of a story and 'Traduttore, Traditore,' which was also supposed to be a single scene, apparently I don't know how to do short.


	5. Chapter 5

Paris General Hospital. Sometime in 1972...

LeBeau knew one thing for certain; this couldn't possibly be heaven. "Pierre?" he mumbled. "You are here?"

"Where else would I be, you daft bugger?"

"Moscow, n'est-ce-pas?" Even groggy and feverish, he remembered _that_ much.

"I _was_. 'Eard you were a bit poorly, so I'm in Paris." Newkirk shrugged. "The Cold War can wait a few days."

"You came here? From Moscow? For this?"

"Naturally, Louie," Newkirk said gruffly. "You and me, we've got to make it to 1993, don't we? Who'll take the mickey if you don't?"

Reassured, LeBeau smiled and went back to sleep. Yes. At least 1993.

OoOoOoOoO

Author's note: I don't want to know how many favors he had to call in to make this happen. I really don't. And yes, LeBeau is going to be just fine; he'll be complaining about the hospital food before you know it.


	6. Chapter 6

Christmas, 1981

The siren song of presents had easily overcome the effects of a truly obscene amount of food; all four grandchildren were bouncing off the walls.

"For you, Grand-pere," Luc, (Pierre's eldest,) chirped, handing him a package from under the tree.

Louis looked at the tag and chuckled. It was from Carter, so he already knew what it would be. As usual, it would contain two sweaters— one blue, one red— and a note saying 'Just in case.'

He couldn't complain about the decades-early teasing; his usual gift to Carter was a bottle of brandy. And a box of gauze bandages.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: There wasn't much question as to what Louis was going to name his first son, was there? As for the gift, I don't think he's ever felt the need to explain Carter's annual leg-pull to the rest of his family. Perhaps they just assume that Carter doesn't have a great deal of imagination in this regard.


	7. Chapter 7

1993\. At long last.

The waitresses weren't sure how a few old men could take up the entire pub, but they were managing. And they were so unashamedly happy that, somehow, the staff didn't even mind.

For a moment, the clock rolled back, and they were young again. Shoulders squared under the weight of adventure, eyes glittered with triumphant glee. They were _together_. The barbed wire was gone.

Life was good.

"To 1993," Hogan toasted. "To all the crazy schemes we should never have been able to pull off."

"And did anyway," Newkirk chimed in.

"Hear, hear," they chorused. No drink ever tasted sweeter.

*.*.*.*

Author's note: To reiterate what I've been saying from the beginning, this is only one way it might have gone. There are other possibilities, other futures, other pasts, other denouements. I've written several others... many of which were not in the least comedic... and might share them sometime, but this is the one I wanted to post first. This is the way we all want it to have happened, isn't it?

Prosit.


	8. Chapter 8

Long after 1993…

His doctor had decided opinions on what he should and shouldn't eat—short version, if he liked it, he couldn't have it—and everything hurt. He was fed up with the sterile white bed and the sterile white ceiling and the sterile white monotony of the hospital. He was tired and sick and lonely. He was tired of being sick, and sick of being lonely.

It had been good. Oh, it had been _better_ than good. But it was time, and he wasn't sorry. He closed his eyes, dozed off.

There was a voice—strident, amused, Cockney. "Blimey, it took you long enough. What, are you going to make me _carry_ your scrawny arse in?"

"It would do you no harm to perform honest work for a change," LeBeau shot back.

"Maybe not. But at this stage of the game, why risk it?" He grinned. "Carter _did_ make me carry 'im. For old times' sake, 'e said."

"It could have been worse. It might have been Kinch." It didn't seem as though he'd be needing his body anymore, so he left it where it was. "Or Schultzie!"

"Blimey, I'd've needed a derrick," Newkirk said with a shudder. "Nah, Kinch didn't ask for a piggyback ride, thank goodness."

LeBeau laughed. "I won't either, then. What about _le Colonel_?"

"Didn't ask. But, you know… I would've done it." He smiled. "Only fair. _'E_ carried _me_ long enough. So did you, for that matter."

LeBeau slung an arm around his shoulder. "We all carried one another."

"Truer words," Newkirk agreed. "C'mon, then. They're waiting for us."

And as they walked away, chattering nineteen to the dozen—and arguing, just a little bit, because, well… _because!_ —it got brighter and brighter as they approached the door.

And brighter still as they passed through it.

Fin.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: So much for the drabble format. This is 300 words even, and trying to hack it down to size was an exercise in futility. And the original ending- which involved a sort of heavenly induction center, with Saint Peter (no, not him. The real one, and shut up, Newkirk, nobody asked you,) issuing Louis a harp, a halo, and two sweaters- was a bit too silly to include, but made me smile enough that I thought you all might get a bit of a kick out of it.


End file.
